Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(59)

“We’re going to dig out some of these projectiles, bits of shrapnel, whatever they are,” I continue to instruct. “You’ll need a scalpel, forceps, towels. Also, sterile plastic containers or something comparable. I need you to collect whatever they were struck with so that it can be examined in labs on the ground.”

Using scissors tethered to a string, Chip cuts through the cooling garment. The white cotton fabric floats away from the dead man’s skin, a swarm of more dried blood flakes released into the air.

“Now before we do anything else,” I continue, “let’s do ultrasound, see what we find. This will give you a little guidance, so you aren’t rooting around blindly. We’ll do him first, then take a look at his crewmate,” I explain as Anni floats over to the hardware locker.

“Which probe do you want?” she inquires.

“The linear one with a frequency of six to fifteen megahertz,” I reply.

Pulling a small table closer, Chip places surgical instruments on top of it, everything Velcroed so nothing floats away inconveniently, dangerously.

“Okay, here goes.” Anni has the probe in hand.

She squeezes conductive gel out of a plastic bottle, spreading it over the exposed wound on the dead man’s thigh. The images are fuzzy on the laptop computer that the wireless ultrasound device is synced with, and already I have a clue. I tell them to cut through more of the cooling garment. I need them to ultrasound each wound, and as they do it I see more of the same.

Once a projectile penetrated the spacesuit and entered the body, it fragmented into a blizzard of small birdshot-like pieces that never penetrated the chest cavity or any organ. The devastating wound track in the thigh is some eight inches deep, the frag traveling downward at a sixty-degree angle.

“Based on what I’m seeing, I suspect the femoral vein was nicked,” I explain to everyone. “A potentially lethal injury if untreated. But not immediately so because it’s a vein and not an artery, and it isn’t transected. What that means is he wouldn’t have bled out as quickly, possibly not quickly at all.”

That alone would have killed him eventually depending on the damage caused by the wounds to his right shoulder and arm. But it might have taken a while, and we need to ultrasound his crewmate. That’s a challenge when there’s one table, and the only solution I have isn’t ideal. I tell Chip he needs to hold the dead woman’s body steady.

Anchoring himself with a foot loop, he wraps his Tyvek-covered arms around her, holding her still long enough for Anni to cut through the cooling garment. I instruct her to ultrasound the two wounds to the upper right side, and that will be further complicated by the pugilistic position of the dead woman’s body.

Cutting through the cotton fabric, Anni spreads the gel, rubbing the probe over the wounds. Fuzzy images appear on the laptop’s display, and we see the same thing we did with her crewmate. The projectile began fragmenting upon penetration, in her case hitting ribs, stopping short of vital organs.

“As best I can tell, her right axillary vein was partially transected,” I decide. “That’s what it’s looking like on ultrasound based on the location of one particular fragment I’m seeing. The injury wouldn’t be survivable if left untreated.”

We’ll strap her body to the table later to see what we find. But first we need to finish with her comrade, and I ask Anni to pick up a scalpel while Chip floats nearby, ready with towels.

“Go more slowly than you think necessary. And let me know when you feel the blade hit something.” I watch Anni’s progress on the data wall.

“Not so far.” She cautiously digs in and cuts, blood oozing bright red as it’s exposed to the air, and without gravity it behaves bizarrely.

Pooling, creeping along the dead man’s skin, it floats off in tiny orbs that splat whatever they hit. The walls, the ceiling, equipment, and the transparent plastic shield over Anni’s face. She mops up with a towel, and I have a pretty good idea what it must have been like when the two Thor scientists were dying.

Wet blood from their wounds would have been in the air, spattering everywhere, and there’s no way Jared Horton didn’t have it all over his body, his clothing, in his hair. Not an inch of open space inside the orbiter was spared including the hygiene room where the crew takes space baths, such as they are.

The best one can do is to wash with heated water that wants to float off the same way blood and every other liquid does. No sooner would Horton wipe his skin clean then it was going to be covered again, the blood blowing as the fans dictated, drying in the cool air.

This would have gone on as long as the victims’ hearts continued pumping, and the air handling filtration system could help but so much with a liquid that coagulates before finally drying. Then it fractures into particles as small as pepper flakes that get into everything.

The injured crewmates may have survived longer than we want to imagine, possibly for several hours, getting weaker. But while conscious they would have been panicking and in pain. They may still have been alive when Horton was making his plans to flee in the Soyuz, and despite it all he couldn’t decontaminate himself.

Wet blood would have continued sticking to his hair, his skin, whatever he was wearing and carrying away with him. I find his predicament Shakespearean, maybe worthy of Edgar Allan Poe if not downright biblical. The Thor scientist turned spy had his dead crewmates’ blood on his hands literally.